


put the gun down

by PersephoneHemingway



Series: spyglass//gunmetal [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gambling, Gun Violence, Gun safety what gun safety, Honeypot, Light Angst, Mentor/Protégé, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Shooting Guns, Spies & Secret Agents, Target Practice, Transitions what transitions?, Unresolved Sexual Tension, inconsistent tense oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 15:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30074622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneHemingway/pseuds/PersephoneHemingway
Summary: you put in a bid for double-oh and bond's put in charge of your training
Relationships: James Bond/Reader, James Bond/You
Series: spyglass//gunmetal [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477025
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	put the gun down

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't exactly what i intended, but it's here

"Bond, we already know you're not going to like this..."

"What a way to start."

"There's a new recruit,"

"No."

"She's testing high in sharpshooting, reconnaissance, and seduction."

"No."

"Rising fast, known to be a little reckless with improvisation, but she can slip through openings the size of keyholes and she's quick as a whip. She's put a bid in for double-oh."

"No."

A sigh. "You're the only one experienced enough to handle her, Bond."

"Find someone else."

"She’ll meet you in debriefing at 0900 tomorrow.”

&

One week in.

He calls you over to his flat, unbeknownst to you, for a training exercise.

He’d told you ahead of time that the door’s unlocked so you slip right in.

There’s an unresolved tension in the air, like something in the room has changed between the doorway and the primary living space.

You turn your head to surveil the room and try not to look like prey, surrounded.

"...Bond? You here?"

You hear a gun cock and he’s behind you.

You breathe in and do not let it out.

He speaks.

"Don't ever assume you're safe."

His intended impression is made.

&

Over the next few days, you get your ass handed to you in hand-to-hand combat training with Bond.

It’s not doing much good for your ego.

You’re pulled for a mission early— Bond says it’ll be like a preliminary assessment of your field skills. _For what he thinks of them, anyway_.

Q sets you up with various tech to monitor your heartbeat, respiration, cortisol levels, speed of movement, and more. He even hooks up a little bodycam:

“So we can see what you see, and anything else you _should’ve_ seen.”

You make a comment about the lack of privacy. Q laughs and injects something into your arm.

Things more or less go as expected, with the exception of Suite 712, which was decidedly _not_ empty when Bond sent you in ahead to scavenge information.

_Looks like the goons had prepared for our heat sensor._

Bond joins you in the room of three unconscious bodies when he finishes up interrogating the man down the hall, cracks a comment about your luck (you weren’t sure if he meant good or bad), and the two of you head back.

There is a debrief and then you take off, leaving Bond to drift over to Q’s workstation.

“Did you actually see her take down any of the hostiles in that room, Bond?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, you should. It was quite impressive.” Q clicks out of one screen and into another, backs up the footage from your bodycam, and opens up the records of your vital signs to run alongside it.

He hits play.

It was clear you were noticing most signs of danger but didn’t quite have the speed to keep your guard up. Nevertheless, you were able to compensate for your body’s lack of synchronicity by quite literally _rolling with the punches_ — you would let your body take the hit and recover into a counterattack before your brain could translate the shock of the hit into pain.

Watching you fight from the outside looked like a messy amalgamation of straightforward attacks, missed guards, staggering injuries, and unexpected comebacks.

Watching you fight from the perspective of your own body— _almost made sense_.

The strategy didn’t work well whenever you were practicing against Bond— he too made heavy use of improvisation and could see past the quick counterattacks you try to pull while feigning a knockdown— however, the style seemed to work just swimmingly on the average goon, who wasn’t expecting you to strike back while you were still falling.

The vital records alongside the footage all attest to how well you handled the situation (especially as a fairly new recruit working a bit above her clearance) in terms of fight-or-flight focus, reactivity, reaction time, and economy of movement.

Q looks to Bond who is still watching when he mutters,

“ _Not bad_.”

&

You’re casually lounging on the floor in Q Branch leaned up against Q’s desk doing routine code maintenance on an under-updated field laptop when Bond pops up and "draws a gun" on you. The exercise is for you to get your (unloaded) gun up & drawn ASAP in any situation.

So as Bond materializes approaching Q's open floor station, you tip your hips so the laptop slides off your thighs— and your gun catches in your jeans as you draw, performs a graceful spin, and clatters to the tile.

You stare at it. Bond raises an eyebrow.

"Don't say a word."

He shows his palms. "I didn't."

“Perfect 10 for style, though.” _Thanks, Q._

&

For this exercise, you are “kidnapped,” in a way. You sit slumped with your arms crossed over your knees.

"Tell me about the room."

"Really? It's dark, Bond, I'm blindfolded."

He makes an executive decision to not fire back at your sass today. See if you guys couldn't get some shit done.

"Listen." He starts walking a loose circle around you. "Here, I'll even help you. So _listen_."

You groan, then close your eyes (as if that was necessary), and listen. Every step he takes echoes off the walls. Solid. Flat. Cement? Big open room? Could be a small room too, if it's empty. Hmm, what's it feel like, what's the energy in here?

"Cement floor, empty or sparsely furnished room, not large, not small. A goldilocks room. Although the ceiling my be higher than average... a vent? It's not stuffy and we didn't go far enough to be out of London, so there has to be a vent for airflow... but I don't hear one."

"Good start.”

His footsteps continue to echo around the empty space. You try to focus in on the dull thud of where they are really hitting the ground and not just bouncing off the walls.

You spin around a bit on your stool.

You hold an imaginary gun with your hands and suddenly point it at him.

"Bang."

"Stomach shot. Good, but could be better." You stretch your arms up, kick out your legs, and groan.

&

Noise cancelling earbuds for the range—you can talk to each other but if any sound goes up past a certain decibel range (gun shots, explosions) it cancels it out via vibration to protect your ears.

_Nice one, Q_.

You already had a feeling this wasn’t just going to be gun training— Bond has you on a shooting range with another recruit, and your instructions are to _distract him_.

The boy is a mess by the end; he doesn’t last five minutes with what you were whispering in his ear. You’d drawn your hand down his arm and he’d lost it.

Bond draws his hand down his face.

“Get out— and work on your poker face.”

He does what most people do when ordered by Bond— _listen_.

A pointed look.

“You can’t always rely so much on speaking.” He points with his chin. “Pick up the gun.”

You stand steady and aim the pistol as Bond crosses his arms and looms behind you.

His dominance and stare alone are enough to shake you into an involuntary muscle twitch making two shots go wide to the neck instead of landing neatly in the cluster on the heart.

The condescending scoffs don’t help much either.

He inches himself closer to be even more of a distraction, eventually trailing his fingers along the frayed edges of your jean shorts.

You lose count and the gun clicks when the magazine’s out.

“Get on a sniper.”

He follows two steps behind as you move to the long-range floor setup. He wastes no time in settling himself over you as you lay yourself into position.

Being underground, you’re shooting into a long, long hole beneath the main headquarters with the target sitting at the end. Bond adjusts the slider so it goes further out. You focus your aim.

“What’d you say to him, hmm? Ask him to be a _good boy_ and hit the target for you? Will _you_ be a _good girl_ and hit the target for _me_?”

Bond starts pressing kisses to the back of your neck; you’re getting a little breathless.

“I thought we weren’t talking.”

“Talking isn’t my only tactic here.”

“It wasn’t mine either! I didn’t touch him sooner for the suspense! Usually just slipping into their personal space is enough…”

“I know, I know, hush up…” He pairs his dismissal with a light nip to the skin behind your ear. You’d just settled down your aim and very nearly squeaked— instead you pull the last of the trigger and send the bullet flying into the mark. You both exhale. He gets off from on top of you.

“Window setup, go.”

That’s about when you realize he’s not as unaffected as he’s making it seem. _You can use this, push back on this…_

You walk back and settle on the ledge that aims into a series of square cement holes acting as “windows” above the crouched hole you had previously been shooting into.

You know exactly how far he is behind you.

As he moves to curl himself around you in a seated crouch, one arm going to your arm, you push your hips back to meet him and the subtle cleave between your cheeks cradles the length of him through his trousers as he settles in.

_Thank goodness for your tight, stretchy pants._

You shut him out of your head long enough to line everything up, but as you position your finger and prepare to squeeze, Bond’s barely-there strokes from your ear down your neck shoot goosebumps across your skin and make you want to try a little harder to _bite back_.

“Why don’t you take a few shots for me, Mr. Bond? Show the new girl how it’s done? Pretty please?” You hump your hips back into him when you say _shots_ and bat your eyelashes too dramatically to be taken seriously, (but you’d heard Bond was one to indulge anyway).

You suck in one cheek and pout as he pulls his arm back, flicks you in the forehead, stands quickly, and walks off.

With a sigh, you disengage from your weapon and turn on the balls of your feet to lean against the mounting platform and drop your ass to the concrete and your head into your hands.

&

It was at a casino. _Who knew_.

A little opportunity for extra information gathering before a planned detonation was scheduled to drive the targets into the safety of the embassy of whichever nation had _really_ hired their services.

_You_ were supposed to just be listening for suspicious conversation during a poker game— nouns, mostly. You know, people, places, things. Places that are actually people, people who are also things, things that are just cover for other things…

Bond hadn’t even wanted to take you along— wanted no distractions to impair his judgement as he got a feel for the risks the targets were willing to take. To your face he told you that you were a liability.

You end up taking a chance on a tell and seducing one of them away when you see the chance. It delights you to hear Bond's angry whispering in your earpiece— it’s even more joyous to continuously blow him off and demand he buy you more time before as Q-Branch readied to detonate the pre-placed C4.

_You could get better intel than just the country employing them, you could get their orders and resources too if you could corner the guy with the hand in his pocket— you could do this._

Bond loses sight and sound of you and the mission goes on as planned.

You successfully escape through a window before the explosion, turn back up at MI6 unharmed, and he's stunned. You throw a familiar flash drive onto Q's keyboard and turn back to Bond.

"Told you to trust me.”

He is shocked at the relief he feels after seeing you unharmed. And then, he gets _angry._

&

You’re still buzzing when you unlock your apartment door.

And when you feel the gun in your back, your body turns to static and you can’t move a thing.

Bond, of course.

“Didn’t sense me here, did you? Didn’t _listen_?”

"Sh-shut up.." It was only hours ago— you haven’t had the time to come down from the mission high.

"You didn't freeze like this back at the hotel, or the casino; if you did, you'd be dead. So what's the difference now? Is it me? Are you _scared_?"

"Shut. Up!" He'd gotten too cocky. You stomp down on his instep and wrench your neck down forward as you elbow his pec, pushing the gun back with your forearm. He's so surprised that it discharges into a vanity mirror on the left. His gaze drifts toward the sound of shattering, and the distraction gives you enough of an opening to slam the side of the gun into Bond's face with your open palm.

He blacks out.

&

There was only so long you could yourself on such high alert— and 24/7 wasn’t it.

You couldn’t bear not being able to ease off in your own home without the threat of Bond hitting you with another surprise training exercise. You didn’t sign up for a cortisol kick that never left— this was not active duty. You were not in the field. You were _deteriorating_ — trying so hard to get _anything_ out of Bond, and he just moved on. Pushing. The tension did nothing but build, and the anxiety wasn’t coming down. Was this sustainable? Could you keep it up? Were you really so unremarkable?

He didn’t say you did a good job. He wasn’t proud of you. You trusted your instincts— so he _broke into your home_. You were just trying to do what he would’ve done.

He regains consciousness with a gunpowder burn on his nose and a bloody red bruising above and around his right eye.

He pulls himself up to sitting and sees you curled up on the far side of your couch hugging your knees to your chest, staring.

"The gun was loaded." Silence. "You didn't even have the safety on."

Bond has no excuse.

&

He might’ve taken it a little far.

(Wasn’t that just the understatement of his entire career).

There was something so intoxicating about receiving your obedience, about having you so eager to impress him—that his only thought was to react with _another_ _challenge_ when you, his protégé, took to his teachings so naturally you were able to pull off a stunt so reckless the agency automatically attributed the idea to Bond.

He’d forgotten that he wasn’t dealing with himself.

You didn’t let your sensitivity show often, but…

&

You don't hear Bond approaching, it’s more like you _feel_ him coming up on you like a storm. He slaps a packet of papers down on the table in front of you. You know what it is—you'd put it in after the second gun incident.

"What the hell is this!?" Here we go. You've been dreading this—the fallout. The consequences. The argument. _The conviction._

"You know exactly what it is. You can read."

"You're dropping your bid for double-oh. Why?"

"A-are you kidding!? Because you're _awful_ to me!"

He scoffs, "You're a child!”

"You're just upset I'm calling you out!"

“And after I’ve spent so much time on you—"

“Well, it was clearly a waste!”

"You really think so little of yourself!?"

"You've made it pretty obvious you think I'm too much of a screw-up to bother with, so why are you even fighting this!? You should be glad to be rid of me!"

"How can you be this dense, did you learn _nothing_ from me about reading faces!?"

"Well I fuck up every other thing you tell me to do, why would this be any different!?"

Everything about his demeanor is frustrated, maybe even a little disappointed with your self-deprecation. _But it’s not as if he made himself easy to read_.

_“Everyone_ has a tell, (Y/N), if you look close enough."

"So what do you expect me to do!?"

"Read me. _Look closer_. _What am I telling you?_ " He’s right in your face, and all you can see is blue. Your eyes narrow in focus before they shoot wide. You flinch back and pull down on your hair, pacing away to rest your forehead on the cool glass of the bay window.

"You can't be fucking telling me this right now. You _can't_. You can't do this to me, not after everything else. You're lying. You're lying! You never wanted me around! I can't do anything right! You can't stand me! Y-You-!" Your voice breaks. You slam a fistful of hair against the glass in an attempt to cover a sob.

He eases over to you, step by step, hands in his pockets.

"(Y/N)."

You shake your head, carelessly rubbing your face into the window.

"Think. Tell me," His hands join your face on the glass, pressing close.

“N- no…”

" _Do I really hate you_?"

He closes in and presses his torso to your back, curving along the hunch for full contact. His hands came down over yours and gently pry them from your hair.

"You know," His lips hover by your ear, the whisper coiling tight in your spine:

" _I want you_."

You close your eyes.

&

You give in.

**Author's Note:**

> always remember proper gun cleaning and maintenance


End file.
